The Devil You Know
by Forever Jake
Summary: It is far safer to trust the devil you know, than the angel you don't. Unfinished story detailing Baal's flight from Hell following Act IV.
1. 1

"The Devil You Know" By Forever Jake  
  
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Cascio knelt in the dust of the stone floor, the distant, domed ceiling looking down at him like some guardian angel. The main temple chamber was bare but for a few scattered corpses – the victims of their own vice. The council members no longer walked the world, spreading the lies and hate of their master, and the church – both the ivy-choked structure and the aging institution it symbolized – was once again pure.  
  
The other heroes, singing songs of relief and victory, had already traveled on through the gate, but the young paladin knelt still, forgotten by his peers, his hands cradling a thin body as though it belonged to an infant. His comrades, barbarian and necromancer, did not understand – could not understand – the consequence of what they had done… what he had done. For them, the evil vanquished was nameless, anonymous, as foreign as the jungle-choked land in which they fought.  
  
For Cascio, the battle had been much more personal.  
  
He cradled now the body of his fallen foe, as something he had not felt in years fought its way to his face – grief. Tears streamed down his cheeks, ripping down onto the broken visage of the still, silent Mephisto, Lord of Hatred.  
  
But this was not Mephisto's form, not his features. It was not his body Cascio had hacked and mangled, and not his eyes which had stared back at him through it all, bright, defiant… hateful.  
  
The spirit of the great demon was gone, and left was the shattered shell that had been Sankekur, the Que-Hagan, the very living leader of the Church. Mephisto had wielded the priest like a weapon, and at long last the weapon had broken in the demon's hands. Cascio had fought Mephisto, but it had been Sankekur he had killed.  
  
The fallen priest had been his teacher, once, before the dark events in the western lands had called the inexperienced pupil from his mentor. Cascio had left home to battle evil, but evil had come instead to his home. The paladin had returned, altered by his quests, but he had found his Que-Hagan altered as well. The wise and benevolent priest had all but vanished, replaced by the very embodiment of evil. Mephisto had settled himself in Sankekur's mind and broken him from within; by the time Cascio and his companions had arrived, the transformation from holy man to harrower was complete.  
  
Cascio had faced many a cunning and cruel enemy along his journey, but never had he faced a friend. The battle with Sankekur – Mephisto – had been a difficult one; in the end, however, the paladin had done what was needed. His sword had ended two lives, one he viewed with hate, and one with love. He knelt, now, in the dusty void of the temple floor, asking the great domed ceiling, the heavens, and the scores above whether the trade had been a balanced one.  
  
"Where the actions of Hell often seem straightforwardly bent on destruction, the motives of Heaven are unfathomable," the sage, Deckard Cain, had told him. Was Sankekur's death part of the Great Plan? Was the holiest man in the world truly an obstacle to the victory of Heaven in this war? He didn't know.  
  
Unable to move, to even wipe the tears and blood from his face, Cascio held the lifeless body of Sankekur and cried into the emptiness of the temple, his curses of Heaven and Hell alike shattering the solemnity of the place. 


	2. 2

The paladin awoke with a start. The warm, dry air of Hell was stifling, as though with it some adhesive substance had seeped into his lungs, filling them and sealing them. He stretched painfully, his bones seeming to cry out in protest of his movement. The very air seemed to be pressing in on him, crushing him beneath it like some great ocean wave. There was no ocean, however, no refreshing, cool water, only the endless black plains of ash and dust and the distant, perpetually darkened sky.  
  
It had been three nights since Sankekur had been slain, three nights since he and his companions had crossed through the Infernal Gate into Hell. They had tumbled through a great vertical tunnel, fallen through the depths of the void towards the great, dark Abyss below, certain that they would never again feel solid earth beneath their feet. The darkness had churned and swirled around them, swallowing them up, and then their reason had given way to delusions of the greatest grandeur.  
  
Angels had come, hundreds of them, a flock of winged soldiers from the highest kingdom. Cascio had seen them above him, behind him in the tunnel, struggling through the quagmire of the void to catch up to the paladin and his comrades. At their head he had seen a ghost – the archangel, Tyrael, who had died at Cascio's feet in an empty desert tomb.  
  
It was a vision out of a dream, a hallucination only brought on by the trauma of the fall, he had told himself. His faith was broken, after all. He did not believe in such things as angels anymore.  
  
Tired, confused, his feeble mind stretched beyond its capability, Cascio had blacked out.  
  
That had been three nights ago. The next morning – if it could be called that, for the sun never truly rose in Hell – he had awoken in a place that did not, could not exist. It was a palace of impossible dimensions, its ceiling rising higher than where the skies of Hell seemed to be. It was a light in a place where anything but darkness felt simply wrong, a doorway and a barrier at once. It was paradox, it was oxymoron, and it was called the Pandemonium Fortress.  
  
There he had seen another vision of the impossible, the ghost of the slain angel once more in his presence. Tyrael had been there, his great, mythic wings swirling idly around him as he leaned against one of the Fortress' white stone columns.  
  
Each hero had spoken to the angel separately, and then left the Fortress with their own personal instructions. The barbarian had marched proudly into the twilight afternoon, his armor creaking with each step like a trumpeted announcement of his quest. The necromancer had stalked grimly through the Fortress' gates, his robes swishing as he walked, his task as plain in his face as his companion's had been in his body.  
  
Cascio had been last. The others, he imagined, had left in search of their quests, in search of some artifact to recover or demon to slay in the name of the Light. The paladin had left to die.  
  
He was sick of the endless quests, the nameless and numberless demons that existed only to impede his path. He was finished with crusading and battling evil, finished with taking orders from ghosts that did not exist. He was finished with the Light.  
  
The angel's short words, as if of their own accord, returned to his thoughts as he sat, leaning against a boulder. He saw in his mind the featureless face tilting slightly with each inflection, heard each subtle implication of necessity.  
  
"There is a dark, tortured soul," he began, "trapped within this forsaken realm long ago. In ages past he was my trusted ally, and my dear friend. Yet, against my wishes, he gave himself over to his own zeal and vanity. He thought that he could challenge the Prime Evils alone, without the rest of Heaven. He has paid dearly for his offense.  
  
"He became a corrupt shadow of his former self - a fallen angel trusted neither by Heaven nor Hell. For his transgressions, his spirit was bound within the form of a terrible creature summoned from the Abyss. His maddened spirit has resided within that tortured husk for many ages now.  
  
"It seems to me that he has suffered long enough. I implore you, hero, find him and release him from his cruel imprisonment. Put an end to his guilt and suffering."  
  
Cascio had listened attentively to the archangel, and then departed the paradoxical structure forever. He fled Tyrael and his quests, fled Deckard Cain and his riddles, fled the Palace and its impossibility. He fled his task, his calling, and his life. He went out into the chaotic wilderness of Hell without an aim or a direction, intent to wander until some horrific beast stumbled upon him and killed him.  
  
And stumble upon him they did, flocking by the dozens to torment and harass this soldier of the Light who dared to enter their realm. But Cascio had then learned something which frightened and frustrated him. He found he was unable to stand by and let them attack. He found he was compelled, propelled by some intangible force, to keep living, to keep fighting. He slew them all.  
  
He had rested then, here, on this spot, against this rock. And though three nights had passed, the visions of Sankekur's death had once again come into his mind. He had slain both friend and foe in that battle, embracing a great victory in the war for the Light but at the same time a grim defeat in the battle for his own soul. He understood, now that it was not his belief in the Light which had been deflated. He believed in angels and demons and holy quests more than any priest could hope to, because he had seen more than his share of each.  
  
What he lost was his faith. He knew these things existed now more than ever, but he no longer cared. He only wanted to stop and die, to escape his troubles and the war against Hell forever. Yet he could not, for that strange, invisible force had moved him to defend himself, long after he had already died inside.  
  
He drew his sword from his scabbard, and angled the point towards his abdomen. He moved a finger over the gold letters inscribed on the blade, and the horrid black stains where demons had bled on the weapon. He moved both of his hands to the hilt, squeezing his eyes shut and preparing himself for death.  
  
A moment passed. He did not move. He opened his eyes, looked the weapon over again, and again closed them tight. Again, he did not move. He could not bring himself to plunge the blade into his flesh.  
  
He opened his eyes again, his hands lowering the weapon.  
  
"Why do you keep trying?" said a voice he reluctantly recognized. He looked up to find the form of Tyrael hovering several feet off of the ground, just ahead of where he sat.  
  
"I do not want to fight anymore," the paladin whispered feebly. "I have done my part."  
  
"You are all such fools, you mortals," the angel boomed. "You think that whenever you grow weary your work is over. For you, the time to surrender is when you tire of the fight." He alighted on the dusty ground silently, shaking his head in disgust. "You forget the oaths which made you, the covenant that allowed you to fight at all."  
  
"My covenant has been fulfilled!" Cascio yelled back. "I defeated killed Mephisto, the oldest of the Prime Evils, something no mortal or angel has ever done alone! I crossed through the Gates of Hell themselves to bring his Soulstone here, to be destroyed, and you tell me my covenant has been broken?"  
  
"Do you recall the day you were knighted, paladin?" The angel asked.  
  
"Of course."  
  
"Do you remember the oath you swore that day?"  
  
"Yes."  
  
"Recite it for me." Cascio sighed. He knew he was beaten.  
  
"'From breath to death, to coffin come, my body and soul to Heaven alone.'"  
  
"Your body and soul belong to Heaven, little fool. As long as I have need of you, you will fight."  
  
"For what? For an angel of Hell? A demon who was once your friend?"  
  
"For whatever I tell you to fight for." Cascio sighed again. "You will find this angel and free him from his prison. You will do what you are told, and you will not once think of failure." There was a pause.  
  
"As you wish, Lord Tyrael."  
  
"You may call me Bright One, for that was the name by which I first was called. I in turn shall call you by name, Cascio, and not by 'mortal'."  
  
"As you wish, Bright One."  
  
"Now go." 


	3. 3

Azmodan paced impatiently in the entrance to the cavern, his tail dragging loudly in the dust of the cave floor. The demon greatly resembled his rival, Diablo, in appearance, his body large and muscular, and adorned with all manner of spikes and horns. The Lesser Evil was slightly smaller than the Lord of Terror, and his face was narrower and more serpent-like. His thick hide was darker and more of an earthen color than Diablo's bright red skin. Azmodan had often been confused with the greater demon, something he had learned to exploit, but no one could confuse them side by side.  
  
One more reason, he decided, to keep his historic rival as far away from him as possible when this business was done.  
  
"He's late," Belial hissed from the cavern's interior. The other Lesser Evil preferred the darker shadows to the partial illumination of the mouth of the cave, his form obscured by the darkness. A pair of green eyes glowed in from the blackness of the chamber, filled with ire and hate. He did not pace like his brother, but he, too was growing impatient.  
  
"Diablo should have been here long ago," Azmodan growled in agreement. As much as the Prime Evil bothered him, his absence, under the circumstances, was far more frightening.  
  
Three days had passed since Diablo and his brother, Baal had returned to the kingdom they had fled so long ago, the kingdom Belial and Azmodan had forcibly taken from them. At first, the two Lesser Evils had prepared to contest the brothers' return, but they had learned quickly that a pair such as they could not single-handedly counter the onslaught of both Terror and Destruction, especially not when their adversaries appeared to have not only the support of the other two Lesser Evils, Andariel and Duriel, but that of the Lord of Hatred, Mephisto, as well.  
  
Outnumbered and overpowered, unused to such resistance, the kings of Hell had agreed to suspend their reign unconditionally and submit to the Prime Evils' wills. They had expected imprisonment, perhaps torture, but they had been rewarded strangely for their surrender. They had been entrusted with guard duty.  
  
Guarding what, they didn't know. Diablo had shown them this spot and this cave, and told them he would return with more instructions in a day's time. He was late.  
  
A rocky path wound past the cave, from nowhere to nowhere, its purpose forgotten in the long history of Hell. Were they protecting the road itself? Was someone or something coming that would need protecting? Was something coming that needed killing, perhaps? Or did the mysterious task involve the cave itself? The demons had explored the cave and found it to be quite short, a dead end that did not even stretch long enough to silence the stinging, searing winds of the Plains of Despair outside.  
  
What, then? Diablo was supposed to have told them, but where was he? Why had he not come? Many were the questions and few the answers, and the brothers were getting restless.  
  
"Hello," said a voice. Azmodan turned around to find himself looking down into the face of a stooped, skeletal figure in a sand-colored robe. Folds of mummy cloth hung from various parts of his person, like pieces if snakeskin in the midst of being shed. The visage of Baal, Lord of Destruction, stared back at the Lesser Evil calmly.  
  
"Which way did he come from?" Azmodan asked.  
  
"Nowhere," Belial responded immediately. "He just appeared." The green eyes in the shadows flared angrily.  
  
"I believe you two were given a task. It's time for you to start doing it."  
  
"We were expecting Diablo." Belial hissed from the shadows.  
  
"Diablo is dead," Baal said quickly. Azmodan's eyes shifted to meet Belial's. Now there was an interesting piece of information. It was common knowledge that a band of mortal heroes had infiltrated Hell on the heels of the Prime Evils, but had they really pushed far enough to silence the Lord of Terror, himself?  
  
"Now listen closely," Baal continued. "I am leaving this realm, probably for good. Do as I ask, and you can have it."  
  
Azmodan whistled. "How may we serve?"  
  
"A hero is coming towards this place, a mortal. He is not one of those responsible for Diablo's death, but he is of their party. I do not intend to linger long enough for him to find me."  
  
"You are afraid of this… human?" Belial hissed from the shadows. Baal began to walk towards him.  
  
"To a point. I believe he has the power to impede my plans, and that Heaven will bid him pursue me because of my allegiance to my fallen brothers."  
  
Brothers. Plural. Was Mephisto dead, too, then? No wonder Baal was scared. This is getting more interesting all the time, Azmodan thought.  
  
"One of you is coming with me, to aid me in my passage. The other will stay here and ensure that I am not followed by this… hero."  
  
"One of us is to hold this human back all by himself?"  
  
"He is not the one who slew Diablo, Azmodan, he is simply their companion. So far as I know, he is not even a formidable warrior. He's a paladin, not a mercenary – he knows more about preaching than fighting."  
  
"I will stay," Belial whispered. "This human does not frighten me."  
  
"Good." Baal was visibly relieved, and began walking again, past Belial's glowing eyes into the rear of the cavern. Perhaps he thought we were smart enough to avoid the whelp, Azmodan thought. Well, one of us is. I'm not going near that paladin, not if he's got the Lord of Destruction here running for cover. "You won't be alone, Belial. I am stationing Izual here as well."  
  
"The fallen angel?"  
  
"Yes. He's quite an effective deterrent, wouldn't you say?"  
  
"Can I trust him?"  
  
"Can I trust you, Belial? Shut up and do as you're told, and this kingdom is yours. Are you coming, Azmodan?" Baal called from the darkness. He had vanished, seemingly into the walls of cave.  
  
"Not that way," the Lesser Evil chuckled. "It's a dead end. You're heading straight into a blank wall."  
  
"You need to look more closely at things, especially when you've been told to guard them." There was a rumbling sound, as though an entire section of wall had been knocked down. Azmodan peered into the darkness, but he still saw nothing but his brother's glowing eyes. Belial blinked at him. "Come on, we haven't much time."  
  
Sighing, Azmodan lumbered after the Prime Evil, his tail swishing in the dust of the cavern floor. Maybe it would be safer to stay and face the paladin, he thought. I'd rather square with a mortal than Baal any day. 


End file.
